by Tamara Leigh
The moment before they met, James swerved just enough to cause him to miss his mark and to take the impact of Lucien’s lance across his shield. Propelled out of the saddle, he slammed to the ground and narrowly escaped his destrier’s hooves.
Melissant’s shriek was muted by the roar of the spectators as James struggled to his feet.
Dear Lord, Alessandra prayed, let it be done that I might wander the garden. That I might put my nose in a boring book. Anything but watch grown men behave as animals.
Melissant turned to her. “Now Father must pay De Gautier a ransom for his horse and armor.”
“Whatever for?”
“’Tis the price of the victor.”
A commotion in the lists returned Alessandra’s and Melissant’s attention to it. Armor dulled by dust and the scratch of sand, James thrust his sword toward Lucien. A challenge?
Alessandra stepped alongside her sister. “Is it not done?”
Around the thumbnail she chewed, Melissant said, “It seems not.”
Lucien slid his visor back. “First, the ransom,” he shouted.
Those in the pavilions quieted to await James’s response.
“Name it!” his voice rang from the depths of his helm.
“De Gautier lands.”
James shoved his visor back. “You know the price. Coin will not buy them back.”
Hearing his blood thrum in his ears, Lucien glanced at Alessandra. “Nor Breville wife,” he said, then silently cursed her for the sun in her hair that reminded him of gentler moments and emotions he had never thought to feel, that stirred jealousy at the remembrance of her awarding her favor to Sir Rexalt.
“’Tis your last insult,” James shouted, sword glinting in the sun. “Come down from your horse, De Gautier!”
Dancing his destrier sideways, Lucien said, “For a price.”
James laughed. “The lands are mine. Only under my terms will they be restored to you.”
“And only under my terms will I enter swordplay with you, old man. And here they are—should I be victorious, you agree to sell the De Gautier lands to me for the price you paid. Should I lose…” He glanced at the pavilions. “…I will agree to your peace through marriage.”
Those last words were bitter, but they were only words, he assured himself. He had spent these past weeks in merciless training for this confrontation, and if his sword arm remained as true as he had honed it, he need not worry over the humiliation of being forced to wed in order to regain his lands. Certes, he would better Breville, and however many others it took to raise the money.
Though Breville obviously burned to test his skill against Lucien’s he lowered his sword. “Naught, then.”
Lucien smiled. “You need not fear my sword, Lord Breville.” He drew the weapon from its sheath. “As you can see, ’tis dull-edged for the tourney and will draw little blood. Too, I will be gentle with you.”
James’s sword swept the air again. “I fear no man’s sword,” he shouted, the visible portion of his face flushed.
Drawing his quarry in, Lucien resheathed his sword. “You fear mine, else you would trust yours to keep my lands. Perhaps your sword arm has grown infirm with age?”
James’s struggle was short-lived. He hurled his sword to the sand, bellowed, “Bring me a blade that will pierce this knave!”
Lucien’s blood surged. “My terms, Breville?”
“Aye, and your blood!”
Lucien called for his own cutting sword and, amid shouts from the goading crowd, dismounted and slapped his destrier’s rump. It was time to take back his lands.
The contents of her belly churning, throat dry, Alessandra looked to Melissant. “True weapons are not permitted,” she repeated what she had been told.
Melissant jerked her chin. “’Tis not looked kindly upon by the Church.”
Both turned to Bishop Armis.
He appeared unconcerned by the challenge being taken up. In fact, he seemed eager where he leaned forward in his chair, staring at the combatants with the same intensity a worldly man might show a comely wench.
Even more obvious was Agnes, her eager smile, sparkling eyes, and shifting carriage evidencing she was not averse to a contest that might see one or both men wounded, perhaps dead.
It appalled Alessandra, this bloodlust echoed by men and ladies alike.
“What say we dispense with armor?” James said. “All but the breastplate.”
Lucien accepted the honed sword his squire handed him, motioned for the young man to remain. Unhurriedly, he peered down one edge of the blade, twisted his wrist, peered down the other. “We may dispense with armor altogether if you like,” he finally answered.
James hesitated, then said, “For the love of the ladies, the breastplate remains.”
“As you will.”
Immediately, the squires began the process of removing the armor piece by piece.
Alessandra looked to the bishop again, but still he did not move. Thinking to appeal to him, she started to step around Melissant, but her sister pulled her back.
“What are you doing, Alessandra?”
“I would speak with the bishop. Surely he cannot allow this to go forward.”
Melissant shook her head. “He, more than any, enjoys such sport. You will only anger him if you interfere.
“But if I do not, who will?”
“None. These contests are a part of England. You cannot change that.”
Alessandra looked back at the lists. The squires and varlets were carrying away the armor. All that remained were the breastplates and arming doublets to which they were attached.
“Fools,” she hissed.
The chief marshal called for the contestants to take position, then cried, “Be worthy of your ancestry. Do battle!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The clash between Lucien and James was an unspeakable thing to witness. Hugging her arms about her, Alessandra forced herself to watch, tensing with each meeting of steel on steel.
Though Lucien had the advantage of height, James appeared a good match, his greater experience surely making up for the ten inches he lacked.
Lucien was the first to draw blood, his blade piercing James’s mailed sleeve and causing the links to color red.
Amid the roar of approval, James cursed, retreated, raised his shield, and lunged again. “Get your fill, De Gautier,” he yelled, “for that is all you will ever have of a Breville.”
Lucien landed another blow, but in denting his opponent’s breastplate, left himself open.
James seized the moment, swung, and slashed through Lucien’s unprotected thigh.
Blood discolored Lucien’s chausses, but he continued to hack and slice. His sword tip caught his opponent’s jaw, cut downward, and snagged the edge of James’s shield and sent it flying.
Thus, James’s fate was questionable, but he pressed on and was granted a swipe at Lucien’s arm. More blood, alternately Lucien’s and James’s.
The crowd became more frenzied, their cheers and excited voices closing in on Alessandra until she could hardly breathe. Teeth clenched, her mind reeled with every prayer she had ever memorized, while tears slid down her cheeks.
When the shifting battleground moved in front of the center pavilion, she stepped back, but not before her father’s blood flecked her and the others in the front row.
Alessandra gaped at the pattern of red across her bodice, cried, “No more!” and pushed past Melissant who also appeared horrified to find herself marked by battle.
“You must stop this!” Alessandra entreated the bishop. “Now!”
He swept a hand before him. “You block my view, child.”
“Your view? Is it not the edict of the Church that only weapons of peace be used at tournaments?”
Nostrils flaring, he said, “Remove yourself from my presence.”
Alessandra did not. Thus, Agnes stood, snatched her arm, and jerked her aside. “’Tis the way of men” she hissed. “Now take your seat or I
will have you returned to the keep.”
“But it is wrong! A tournament—”
Agnes shook her. “’Tis no longer a tournament. A vendetta is what it is, and one that ought to have been settled long ago.”
Alessandra broke free. “Not this way. Not with blood.”
“Aye, with blood, you little fool. As much blood as it takes to bring the De Gautier dog to heel.”
Alessandra stilled. Stared. Though her mother had said England was where her daughter belonged, it seemed no better than Algiers. Worse. This woman was James’s wife, yet it mattered not that he was injured or doing injury to another—the De Gautier dog as she had called Lucien.
“You are a pitiful excuse for a Christian,” Alessandra said, fully aware her voice carried. Then she met the bishop’s imperious gaze. “As are you.”
She heard the crack of flesh on flesh before she felt the burn. Dazed, she touched her cheek where Agnes had slapped her, looked to the woman.
Agnes’s expression was reminiscent of another, one who had shown little emotion in the face of Sabine’s death. One whose eyes had challenged Alessandra to prove her wrongdoing. One who would have been more content had it been Alessandra whose veins coursed with poison.
She blinked to dispel the face of the woman who could not possibly stand before her, but it persisted, dragging her back to a time she had tried to convince herself was past.
With a cry, she fell upon the one who had murdered her mother—who, this time, would pay.
A chair collapsed beneath the force of their combined weight, and they crashed to the floor of the pavilion. As the commotion around them rose, Alessandra fit her hands around Leila’s neck. Against her fingers she felt straining muscles; her palms, the vibrations of a scream; her thumbs, the swift flow of blood that ought not to flow. But it was not Leila’s face that stared in horror at her. It was Agnes’s.
Alessandra’s hands slackened, and in the next instant she was gripped beneath the arms and lifted.
Feeling as if jerked from a terrible dream, she looked over her shoulder into Lucien’s beautiful eyes.
How had he come to be here? What of the contest with her father?
She turned to him. “I thought…Leila…” She shook her head, then pressed her face against the heat of his armor.
His arms came around her, and it was the most wonderful thing she had felt in weeks. She heard her father’s voice, Agnes’s shrieks, the bishop’s condemnation, and the chatter of the crowd. But she refused to give up Lucien, holding tight to him and praying he would not reject her.
“Quiet, woman!” James shouted.
Agnes finished her accusation, claiming Alessandra had attacked her without cause, then fell silent as the bishop asserted that the infidel had insulted Agnes and himself and been corrected with a slap that in no way made recompense for what had been spoken against them.
“Lord Bishop, I assure you my daughter is a Christian,” James said in a strained voice that reflected veneration and humility. “Her mother raised her in our faith. ’Tis simply a matter of England and its ways being foreign to Alessandra. But she will learn. I implore you, accept my apologies for her conduct.”
Alessandra lifted her head to protest her father’s apology, but Lucien pressed it down and hissed, “Be silent.”
“I do not believe she is without taint of the infidel,” the bishop said. “Methinks she ought to be questioned to determine the truth.”
Alessandra felt Lucien tense further.
“I attest to her purity of heart, Lord Bishop,” James said. “Each morning, she attends mass and offers prayers to our Lord. She knows the Bible and quotes scriptures. She—”
“Yet she shows her body like a trollop, lines her eyes with the black of the devil, speaks out of turn, shows no respect for the clergy or her elders, and has just attacked your good wife.”
“Lord Bishop, do you speak of the gown she wore yestereve, it was improperly hemmed. By the time it was discovered, it was too late to correct. As for the cosmetics, she has been told it is improper and does not wear any this day. The rest she will learn.”
The bishop snorted. “You excuse her sin as trivial, yet even now she wantonly clings to a man not her husband.”
“She is frightened, Lord Bishop. This is her first tourney, and surely a shock to one gently raised.”
“You do not understand the gravity of the situation, Breville. Your daughter could be tried as a heretic. She—”
“No doubt,” Lucien said, “you are also shocked to see blood shed in a manner condemned by the Church, my Lord Bishop. Verily, it is the reason you did not protest, is it not?”
What was clearly a threat caused the bishop to sputter. “But she…I…”
“No harm has been done,” Lucien concluded. “Though methinks it best that Lady Alessandra attend no more contests.”
“Aye, for the best,” James agreed.
After some moments, the bishop begrudged, “Very well. This matter is concluded.”
“What of the attack upon my person?” Agnes cried. “Look at my throat. I will be bruised—”
Whatever James hissed, it silenced her.
Lucien turned Alessandra toward the steps and, an arm around her waist, aided her descent from the pavilion. But as they started toward the castle, James stepped into their path.
“I will take my daughter.”
Alessandra lifted her gaze up her father’s battered figure and face. No longer the warrior provoked to foolish rage, he looked weary and gaunt. Old.
Wordlessly, Lucien guided her around James and away from the lists.
“Did you not hear me, De Gautier?”
Lucien halted, looked over his shoulder. “I hear well, Breville. Do you?”
From the lists came the booming voice of the chief marshal as he announced the points for each of the contestants. Twice he named Lucien the victor—once in the joust, once in foot combat.
Alessandra felt dirtied. Lucien had won, gaining the ability to purchase his lands from her father, but it seemed such an unholy thing.
“The ransom for your horse and armor will be high, Breville,” Lucien said, then continued forward and across the drawbridge.
“As expected,” James said, following, “but it will not be near enough to buy back your lands.”
The muscles of the arm around Alessandra tightened. “Be assured that by the end of this tourney, I will have amassed enough to have much—if not all—of it back.”
“Not even you have the endurance to challenge enough comers to raise that much,” James retorted.
Lucien said naught, and the remainder of the walk to Alessandra’s chamber was covered in silence.
Once there, she sank down on the mattress, drew her knees to her chest, and peered through narrowed lids at the two men who stood over her.
It was not only her father who bore the marks of battle. Lucien’s breastplate was dented, the mail of his arming doublet in disrepair, and the stain of blood was abundant.
She shivered.
James drew the coverlet over her. “Are you ill, Alessa?”
“She is in shock,” Lucien said.
James touched her cheek. “Aye?”
“I am fine,” she whispered.
“Keep her away from the tournament,” Lucien said and pivoted.
“Halt!” James called.
Lucien paused.
“I have not thanked you for intervening with the bishop,” her father said. “Truly, I am grateful.”
“I did it for her, not you.”
“This I know. Thus, I would encourage you to wed my daughter that there be no more bloodshed. ”
Mouth compressed, Lucien said, “’Tis Alessandra you offer?”
She felt as if struck by a bolt of the blue lightning that often preceded rain in England. Would Lucien truly consider a match with her?
“Though I do not wish to relinquish her,” James said, “if it keeps the peace between us, I shall give you her hand in m
arriage.”
Alessandra held her breath.
“Nay, Breville. I would rather spill blood than wed a Breville to gain back what was stolen from me.” He turned and strode from the room.
Alessandra stared at the empty doorway, keenly felt Melissant’s humiliation of yestereve, then the longing to run after Lucien and repay him with every vile word—Arabic and English—to which she could set her tongue. Instead, she hugged the coverlet tighter.
“You love him,” her father said.
She met his gaze where he bent near. How had he guessed? Did it show upon her face?
Awash in humiliation, she sought another topic. “Why do you fear the bishop?”
Unmindful of soiling the bedclothes, James lowered to the mattress edge. “Very well, we will not speak of Lucien and you, but do not think you fool me, Catherine’s daughter.”
“What of the bishop?” she persisted.
Worry lined his brow. “If he determines you are a heretic—”
“I am a Christian. More than he!”
“It does not matter. Many Christians whose only crime was in being different have suffered persecution, have even been put to death. You must suppress those things Arabic if you are to assuage his suspicions.”
“It is not fair.”
“It is not, but neither is Bishop Armis. He is a powerful man of the Church and easily inflamed.”
Feeling her stubborn streak surface, knowing it best to keep it hidden, she lowered her eyes. “I will try to suppress my upbringing, but it will not be easy.”
Though anxious to return to the lists where the future of the De Gautier lands lay, Lucien paused in the great hall that was silent but for servants who made it ready for the next meal.
He feared for Alessandra, and she gave him good cause. Still, there was some good to be found in the attack upon Lady Agnes that had so roused the bishop. No longer would Alessandra witness the battles in the lists, which was as Lucien wished it, for he would not have her see the animal he must become these next days to gain his lands.
Recalling James’s taunt, he ground his jaws. Not even you have the endurance to challenge enough comers to raise that much coin.
